Sunday, October 26, 2014

I’ve written more than once my reluctance to engage with
convenience store cashiers, particularly at Rite-Aid. I don’t know if part of
their job requirement is to engage but I don't like it. This particular encounter was about MY need to engage. With a kid. Tides are changing.

Last night I was feeling friendly, open, had just seen Birdman
with a close friend and we were all over the map in multiple conversations
about life, ourselves, movies, kids, work, the world, the meaning of life, technology, kosher gummy bears, the
dangers of pork fat, preservatives and toxic friends.

This is how we talk, lots of subjects
overlapping but after 20 years we have rhythms and circles and understand exactly the
other. If we hit on a particular subject of interest, we’ll stay there for a
while, exhaust it, then move on. We were stuck on the kosher gummy thing.

KOSHER ^ ^ ^ ^ ^

Riley is my only friend I have this relationship with, that
is, we both think so fast and are somehow on the same wave, our entire universe
can be jammed into 30 minutes at Rite Aid.

Meanwhile, here I was at the checkout by myself with a young
girl, perhaps 17. Riley had run off to grab another item, which I had
predicted. The “I’m only running in for one thing!” girl.

Me: Oh, she always forgets something. But she has a mind
like a steel trap. So smart, always thinking ahead. Such a smart girl.

The checkout girl was grappling with the 20 pages of coupons
Riley gave her.

Me: Can you believe this? I don’t know how she does it.
Somehow finds, saves, then compartmentalizes coupons for the proper store on
items that are already inexpensive. Where does she find the time?? What, with a
huge job, runs her own company!She’s
raising an amazing son, travels the world, helps others, oversees the
construction on her home, is kind, lovely and adorable and yet organizes
coupons. See, this is why she has money and I don’t.

I toss my sponges and a Hershey’s bar onto the counter.

Checkout girl: Wow, you really raised her well. You must be
so proud.

Me: Excuse me?

Checkout girl: Your daughter. You raised her so well.

Me: You think I’m her mother?

She looked at me as though to confirm.

Checkout girl: Well, yeah. My mom brags about me too.

Of course I had to dig deeper because I love self-abuse.

Me: How old do you think I am?

Now, we all know this is basically a trick question and you
get what you deserve, but I thought she might say 49… at the high end. She was
already delusional.

Checkout girl:Um…
65?

Me: 65? Are you
serious? I look 65? Do you keep a gun under the counter?

Blank stare. This is what I think 65 looks like. ^^^^

This is what 65 looks like being fabulous. Still, I feel I look at least 20 years younger than Susan. Seriously! This girl should get fired.

This is me on a sloppy day. I was in heels and pearls for cripes sake! I don't care that I'm aging, I mean who isn't? But hold up calling me a grandma until I am one!

Riley comes rushing up, her long hair flowing all over the
place, gorgeous face, all legs, then shoving tons of items she “forget” onto the counter.

By now we are hysterical with laughter throwing perfume free
toilet paper into the car. I gasped.

Me: What the hell is that?

I didn’t realize our windows were open.

Riley: Oh Jesus.

Basically Sasquatch was pacing in front of the car, wearing
only tight underpants, his giant balls spilling out on either side.

Riley: Is that a girl?

Me: No, Riley. It has a dick. I need to get a picture and
Instagram him.

Riley:Hurry!

I’m scrambling for my camera, then realized he was staring
at us, our windows were down. WasI really
just going to take a picture of a nearly naked mentally ill man? What was wrong
with me?We had just seen Birdman.We were about to become the very people the
film illuminates, forget reality, forget human emotion, but get the picture and make it go viral.

Me:Let’s go, this is
crazy.

She was staring at her phone.

Riley:Look at this,
he's still in line!

Me: It’s a big deal, great actually. People wait for hours.

She had been keeping track of her son who was waiting for
the over-the-top scary Hayride in Griffith Park.

As parents our children are now little red dots on our smartphones,
we know where they are at all times. Soon we will be able to hear their conversations.

I had stopped counting birthdays after I turned 40, so oddly
if you ask me my age; I just grab a number from the air.

Me: Why 65? Why not say, 80!

Riley: You know kids, They think everyone is old.

Me: That is true. My girls (11) think my son (25) is an old
man. I wonder if she thought I looked
GOOD for 65.

Riley: You look amazing. Stop it.

Me: We’re so much more than our faces. Yet, wouldn’t it be
great if there really was a fountain of youth? I’d be bathing in that business.

Riley: There’s one in Rome. I found them all.

Me: Unicorns. Ever notice how they are all water based? We
are water? Theoretically we could just take a bath. I’d rather get a blood transfusion.I should drink more coconut water.

Riley: Do you think he died or flew?

Me: That’s the entire point of the movie, our interpretation. He already flew into the sun. One of
the recurring themes. He’s free. Finally. He says fuck you to the Birdman
monster then controls his own fate. To me he integrated and
ended it himself.

Riley: I want to believe he flew away to maybe a tropical
island. I mean his daughter smiles and looks up.

Me: For me, they finally bonded; she was smiling because he
was at peace. Why look at a crumpled, bloody body when she knows his spirit is
soaring?

Riley: Yes but I want to believe he is off at some topical
island, free that way.

Me: He'd drown himself. Anyway, this expands the point, that is if he flew away to
someplace real, we as a society are being taken over by a viral reality, so
soon there be no such thing as reality. May as well enjoy this one.

Of course we are now both checking our cell phones.

Since age seven, I too have a Birdman voice that enjoys reminding me I’m a loser, no talent, worthless,
fat, ugly cow that has nothing to offer so really, why try.

But you do.

One of the things I love about Riley is her honesty, and how
she doesn’t give up. We are similar this way.The self-doubt, the anxiety over our kids, and the impossibility of it
all, then we end up laughing. The conclusion is we are humans in an insane world looking for good.And if someone tells me I look 65, and I see
a hairy fat man in his stained underpants smiling at me with a toothless grin, while
contemplating the 25 layers of brilliance that is Birdman, I will call that a good
day.

I finally arrive home, and settle into my comfy bed, channel flipped until Prisoners, a
movie I love so much I can recite all the dialogue. I fall asleep eating my
chocolate bar, so I’m guessing today I probably look 67.

Wednesday, August 6, 2014

I came across something my mother wrote in 1976, which I vaguely remember. This was published in the Detroit News, then quickly forgotten. Mom must have pulled it back out, reworked, and published again in a Washington State Lit Journal just before she passed away. She was an artist of many avenues, writing being one. She died before finishing her 2nd dissertation and sadly I have very little of her work.

Here is an excerpt of The Joy of Six, the only time I said yes to a "guest" blogger.

Mom a few years after we hit the road.^^

____________________________________________________________________

Of the daily challenges presented to a single
mother of many children, none equal the energy expended in the perpetual search
for money. A woman can either work two or three jobs at minimum wage or try to
sell her body for a slightly higher scale of pay. With the relatively
sexless body of a nine-year old boy, I could not imagine anyone buying it.
Since I lacked promiscuity, education, a base of salient skills, and had six
children under ten, I began to realize I was nothing more than a target.
This particular target set out a few decades ago to find a job, become
educated, and raise those kids alone.

In a strange set of circumstances, due I am
sure, to my physically overstressed, and deliriously stretched-out mentality I
began to recognize the presence of more than just my own brood. There
began to appear on a daily basis, metaphysical personifications with actual
personalities distinguishable by their behavior. In spite of my intensified
attention to their detailed intervention into my life, I found it strangely
satisfying to attribute their unusual activities to that of my children. As
such, I began to refer to them as "The Bodies"-- Nobody, Everybody,
Somebody, and Anybody.

While learning their names and idiosyncratic
proclivities, I discovered my favorite among the strangely non-physical beings
temporarily inhabiting my home. Nobody. Nobody loved vegetables. Nobody completed assigned homework, and Nobody followed my
organizational chart. Nobody was polite and cheerful and Nobody washed dishes.
Nobody picked their clothes up from the floor and Nobody claimed ownership of
the jeans thrown there. Nobody did everything.

In spite of my reasonable and pleasant nature, I was surprised by the specious presence of
Somebody who lost my cashmere sweater, misplaced my opal ring, removed the
covers and Down pillows from my bed, and in fact was a suspect in the loss of my
favorite champagne flute, an elegant piece of crystal stem-ware I especially
loved.

I often envisioned a world in which I might own two of them, and
regularly hid money in a sacrificial sugar bowl, hoping to find a duplicate.
The bowl, the money, and the flute were simply missing. The rhetoric went
something like this:

"Somebody broke my champagne flute,
ravished my sugar bowl, and absconded with $3.42!" True, I was
somewhat hysterical, and may have been screaming, however I demanded an
immediate resolution. My eldest countered with her inherited ideological
preference for non-biased accusations:

"Why blame Somebody when it could have been
Anybody?" Daughters two and three agreed, arguing for the defense,
insisting that Everybody had access to the cupboard, and Nobody may have
actually been the culprit.

"Nobody?" I was stunned. "How
could it be Nobody?!"

It was obvious to me that Somebody took these
things because they were in fact gone, and perhaps had broken my one and only
remnant of another, more promising life. For reasons beyond my control, the children blamed
Anybody and Everybody, an outrageous accusation, however, I could imagine such an act of agrestic
behavior by unscrupulous persons such as those referred to by my
children.

Since Everybody hung out at the mall, stayed out
past midnight, smoked cigarettes, talked incessantly on the telephone, and our home became a dance hall to all their friends, I could easily be swayed. There were, in fact,
dozens of their pilfering pals whose fingerprints were wiped away daily.

The
miscreant might just be Anybody, a mysteriously vague personification, not
entirely trustworthy. At the end of the investigation, Nobody claimed
responsibility.

Since Nobody confessed and with the evidence
removed, we concluded that Nobody should be punished, however, when Nobody is
liable, nothing gets done. When I confronted them, my children assured me that
I was biased against Everybody, their favorite of the strangely iconoclastic
representational bodies residing in our home.

The clarity of my argument took a mercurial drop
as my children turned it against me and I seemed to have lost another battle.
Nobody seemed interested in the issues, and with Nobody as an ally, Everybody
seemed to be satisfied.

When our dog produced eight puppies, Nobody came
to my aid and Everybody hid behind Anybody with an alibi. In a moment of unforeseen frustration, I ran
screaming through the house in an unprofessional, albeit succinct,
non-prejudicial rant.

"I'm throwing all of these blue jeans into the
garbage!" I stated further that, "Persons owning these jeans
and those who knew the gender of that dog must be held liable for their
actions."Emboldened, I added, "People must ultimately be held
responsible for their actions."

Unbelievably, daughters, four and five engaged
in a strategy that included youth and innocence as a viable defense against
sexual knowledge.Everybody said, 'It's your fault since we didn't know this stuff."Everybody claimed a significant victory. As
for the jeans, Nobody claimed them and I laundered them in silence.

The dog, apparently a female, was named Gretchen as my children seemed to think she was a "Dutch Brady Terrier," a previously undiscovered breed, and bestowed upon her a fabricated pedigree.

Gretchen, a dog with neurotic tendencies, was terrified by the presence of the
children and slowly but surely, and unbeknownst to me, deposited all eight of
her offspring under my bed.

Also unbeknownst to me was that I was
allergic to puppy dander. Everybody blamed my extreme bronchial distress to the
fact that I worked in a bar eight hours a night, and spent eight hours a day in
a "sick" office building. Somebody suggested I stay home, clean house
and make cookies, an excellent, but thoroughly impractical solution. After much
discussion, Everybody concluded we must remove the animals. Anybody could see
the logic of it and although Nobody objected, the eldest daughter was sent out on
her bicycle with a small lunch, a whicker basket, and eight "for-free"
dogs.

I was miraculously "cured," returned to work, and food
was on the table again.

When daughter number five began bizarre episodes
of limping, and doctors suggested to me that her behavior was a production of
symptoms associated with a psychoneurosis motivated by my neglect of her, I
wondered if this child was emulating her sister who had also lost her ability
to walk for a period of time. I pulled that one around in a red wagon because
she said, "I can't walk anymore." That child was often found napping on the
sidewalk by neighbors, who actually believed her and considered me an unfit
parent.

There was also a cat. When the cat ran into a speeding car, I was in a hospital attempting to manage the operation of daughter
number four, a child who required screws in her thigh. The apparent theory for
her slipping epiphysis was associated with a congenital factor however under
sedation this child admitted to stomping aluminum cans into a kind of
"shoe-heel," and stomped on them daily for fun. The doctor who
performed the operation lost his son on the eve of the procedure due to a
broken neck achieved while performing on a trampoline. I had no money to
pay the doctor and the doctor did not bill me.

Upon our arrival back home, we placed the
crutches for my daughter at the bottom of the stairs. The cat, with a broken
leg, and also wearing a cast, sat quietly next to the rather large barrier, a
sentinel perhaps. Visiting children came with their mothers and were amazed by
the size of the crutches Tutu was given. She was a rare
"Chocolate-Point" Siamese that no doubt was expensive in the past, but had
fallen on hard times, landing on our doorstep and scooped up for play by
daughter number five who dressed her in frilly doll's clothing and pushed her
around in a broken stroller banging recklessly into the furnishings.

Tutu disappeared the same day as Gretchen, her eight
puppies, and a few turtles the kids collected from various streams.

Daughter number five then introduced a Great Dane
to our family; a dog so large I thought it must be a horse. I
noticed it while painting the kitchen ceiling tomato soup red, a color that would
work quite nicely with the yellow shag rug I had partly destroyed when attempting to create kinetic sculpture, ending in an explosive experiment. I snipped the "shag" down with
manicure scissors believing that I might manufacture a kind of "short
shag," or "golf-link-like, grassy carpet.”

The tomato-soup ceiling was almost a success but
had a lumpy appearance, the result of the hardened acrylic thrown
by the blast. While drying, pieces of pasta flung previously slipped a bit and
created a bas-relief effect, creating an Art Deco over-all arrangement, an
interesting almost sunburst look, useful perhaps in Xanadu.

One of my jobs involved the completion of
8"x10" detailed ink renderings with copy, of fashions shown in local
boutiques. I hung
the to-be-drawn clothing from the tomato-soup ceiling and often spent many
sleepless nights engaged in the project.

While working off-premises,
Somebody removed the expensive dresses leaving me with nothing to render and
nothing to return. I was sued of course, but with no tactile resources, Nobody
collected, reassuring me that of course Nobody would stand by me.

In the meantime my children were adamant the
Great Dane should live with us, an absurd notion given there was no
money for food. Happily, that animal left through the back door a few
days after he was dragged through the front.

I began to look at these creatures as welcomed accidents, distractions to our otherwise impossible
living situation. I liked them and remained positive in spite of the negative behavior I attributed to them. I also liked blaming them for unruly
behavior as this would buffer further rage toward my children's own unruly behavior. With the Great Dane gone and no further incoming pests, real issues could no longer be ignored.

“Everybody uses drugs. If anyone tells you
different, they’re lying.”

This was an ongoing, circulator argument until
daughter number one removed herself from the pharmaceutical infatuation. Nobody told her to
quit and Nobody was amazed.

Because my children were collectively against
anything I advocated, I used whatever measures were available to me to police
their behavior, including constant juvenile hall threats.

Everybody was angry, no one was speaking then Somebody threw a
basketball against a dining room canvas; strange behavior I found both
interesting and annoying. A commissioned painting requires a specific result,
unlike creative adventures, which allow for spontaneous reactions, say
serendipity. In the unlikely event of a sponsor spending money on a painting
created absent that sponsor's particular investment in the ideation, most
artists are unpaid. That Somebody could enhance my work with this basketball is
no more unrealistic than my own expectations.

The big sale of the painting provided an
unexpected opportunity to move three thousand miles from the strange and often
misunderstood neighborhood in which we lived. The patron, also the person
I promised to marry, offered us an opportunity. Since we were about to be
evicted, few decisions were made in less time.

Not only did I sell every piece of furniture not
nailed to the floor, I sold furnishings actually nailed to the floor, including
every appliance and all the bathroom fixtures.

With an array of checks from an astounding number
of accommodating neighbors, I found an agent of Cadillac who was happy to pay
me to drive across the country in their slick, boat-like car, upon which I
balanced two beautiful bicycles.

The experience will live forever in the minds of
my children and I doubt anyone could ever reproduce such an
event. I awakened my children at 3:00 am to see an extraordinary circumstance.
In Salt Lake City, the sky created an umbrella of falling stars
surrounding the available space with a spectacular show produced by the lack of
artificial lights. Pure magic, something my children would
never again witness.

The trip to California was a
bit of an illusion; something an intelligent person would refer to as a
fantasy, however, in 1976, all things seemed possible, including a home for my
children.

Nobody led the way and ended our traveling at the
northern-most corners of a place in Marin County. Somebody found a place to
stay and Everybody loved it. The really strange part of the process began the
following day. Nobody was able to cash the deposited checks, a rather positive
experience since all of the purchases including the rent were based on that transaction,
however, the checks could not be verified.

Since the bank was incapable of turning the
deposits into cash, the account was in effect frozen, an operational, and
strange effect of the deposited checks by persons who wrote them to me for the sale
of items that did not all belong to me.

It was becoming increasing clear that I was
about to become a criminal. Of what nature was unclear, but I suspected
Nobody would come to my aid and in the end I would require the assistance of
Somebody or in fact Anybody with a legal background. Further still, making the three
thousand mile trek seemed to cool the professed ardor of my intended, and he simply
disappeared leaving me free to wander for which I was grateful.

Finding a home for the clan proved to be a challenge. The home I chose to rent did not allow
children, so I lied and said I had none. We moved in, all seven of us, along
with our metaphysical recreations, three pillows and a coffee pot. The rent
would of course become an issue due to the freeze on the account, and I was
forced to sell the bicycles, my last hat trick.

In the meantime I found a waitress position,
which allowed me to steal food and toilet paper. Nobody objected,
and I continued to become a felon, a career objective that Somebody considered
difficult to comprehend, and a course of action perceived by Anybody as unwise.

While slicing turkey one day I recognized the
fact that Everybody was open to criminal behavior, and Nobody would protect
them from prosecution. With my first paycheck I reimbursed my employer and
begged to be forgiven. Nobody was, as usual, there for me and I was
fired. My landlord, an unwilling participant in an ongoing lawsuit against him
for allowing children to live in that complex, caved under the pressure and
forced me to leave. By the time I returned home on Christmas Eve, the children
were all sitting outside on the grass, the eldest held the coffee pot and a
string of tree lights.

If Somebody had an idea Nobody was discussing it
and if Everybody thought we were beaten by this we looked to Anybody with a
solution.

I decided to hide the children once again and
find a home, this time with no money at all, a delicate task, but not entirely
impossible. The kids and I were gathered at a gas station when it occurred to
me that the bank might finally have released the checks written for the stuff I
sold. And there it was, $3000.00.After renting a room at Howard Johnson for
showers, clean sheets, and television, we snuggled into a discussion of room
service. Somebody suggested that Everybody would benefit from a walk to the
nearest fast-food joint, an option Nobody found satisfactory. In the end, the
desire to eat actual food out-weighed all practical other-oriented
solutions.

Whatever happiness may be derived while raising
children, the joy of feeding them trumps all others; the prospect of not
feeding them is in fact the most deleterious.

Sitting in the booth of a fancy restaurant with
a serious claim to the best seafood in the world, my darlings ordered
hamburgers with cheese.

"We don't like fish," they proclaimed," especially fish with bones."

Somebody suggested lobster, a
fact Everybody agreed upon and Anybody could see that was the best choice.
Nobody, once again came to my aid.

"Lobster it is," I declared, and
lobster it was for our re-entry into the world of normalcy.

Albeit dinner blew a magnificent hole in our
funds it also produced a significant burst of energy and emotional well-being.
We found a very simple home; a small, fishy cottage, the kind some might
describe as "shack-like", available however to mothers with children.

By padding my resume with outrageous lies, I found a job, bought a car, and
joined other working moms dropping their kids off at the school bus stop.

In the end, it was a simple project; a task
devoted to the ordinary notion of keeping many children alive; an idea developed
while skirting them through negotiations with an atypical parent and the evolution
of an association with unrealistic and entirely imaginative personalities, all
willing to support their creative endeavors, specific ideations, and loving
pursuits. Through a prism of four decades past, I cannot see how it was done,
but can only recall the joy of raising six children on my own.

_____________________________________________________________________Rhonda Talbot on a fictional version of how I was raised for a short time; told through the eyes of my mother.

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

I was there ^ ^ ^! Mom took off in the station wagon loaded up with kids and bagged popcorn. Central Park.

When I was a child, my mom took her large brood to many concerts, indoors, outdoors, the only way she could hear live music. In Detroit, there was a lot. Occasionally we had to venture out pretty far, driving for hours.

"Grab one of your shirts and sop that up. We're making good time here."

I was too young to appreciate the concerts but would later find the same artists on my own.

Many concerts I've written about, maybe it was Mom's connection to Bob Segar that allowed us into so many places. I do remember quite a bit of scandal and controversy about my "spicy" mother and her "hippy" friends.

"Just keep your girls away from my children. I don't know what you think you're doing but the wives are thinking of voting you off the block."
"Look Mrs. Kapinsky, you should chill out. And maybe not so much Lawrence Welk."

And off we went with our ski muffs and pockets full of candy. We were never sure where we were going but glad to get out of Detroit.

BUT there was something about Patti Smith that would stay with me forever. And over the years as I've heard dozens of great females rockers, almost always I can connect them back to Patti.

She had lived many lives before marrying Fred "Sonic" Smith of the MC5, a band we were also very familiar with.

They were an integral part of the music scene in Detroit, early 70's, or what I most remember is my sisters screaming "Kick Out the Jams Motherfu**ers!"

Back then, well, saying the F word was a pretty big deal, so young girls screaming profanity at school could get everyone suspended. MC5 often played with Iggy Pop, among others, at smaller revenues, which means everyone could get in for basically free. As children, though slightly aware, Mother made sure we didn't see the ensuing riots or aftermath.

As an adolescent I would see plenty, it was painful to watch our great city being torn apart. We soon moved... but I digress.

Meanwhile, how perfect are Patti and Fred as a couple?

Her record Dancing Barefoot has always resonated with me, still. It's magic. So I leave it here.

Patti has achieved and contributed so much in her life time it's hard to fathom. If you haven't read Just Kids, well, you're missing out.

I was listening to one of her records today so decided to jot this down. Sometimes I come across young people that don't know who she is. While I find this kind of astounding I also know, eh, I'm older. Her influence is already ingrained in all great music and art, so despite people's lack of understanding, they live under her influence.

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Jake Gyllenhaal and "I don't need anyone" Ann Hathaway in Love and Other Drugs. I recently thought about this film because I was channel flipping. Let's consider how awesome he is. This ties together, I promise.

I sprang up in bed, HUH? There is no discernible difference between the before and after pictures of the women post Premarin. They remain miserable messes. So naturally I took to my computer to investigate.

AFTER SHE TOOK HER LIBIDO PILL ^ ^ ^ She looks terrifying.

Premarin is a huge business, marketed to women with pre-peri-partial-post menopause. So basically any women with a pulse. But now it's being marketed as the female Viagra, because the world has caught on that Premarin actually kills women. Anyhoo...

It's male cousin Viagra just keeps on ticking. The Pfizer execs figuring out what to do. "Let's just dump her, that's our business model anyway."

According to Pfizer, (who manufactures both drugs) these pathetic women are so upset they lost their libido suicide is really the only option. Hey, let's market Premarin as a LIBIDO DRUG! But what a marketing FAIL... since the company insists on showcasing these gals as angry, clinically depressed, and unapproachable.

The ads suggest without Premarin, you may as well just jump. A contemplator: ^ ^ ^

If you hang it there, you'll be a bitter, resentful harpy. ^ ^ ^ So take your Premarin dammit!

YES, I am late to the party again, but who knew Pfizer makes billions knocking up horses to get that wonder urine-- PRE MARE and no one is stopping them. Big Pharma just loves to kill people. AND animals. Apparently they have been preying on vulnerable women for years.

I forgot to pick up my Premarin. Just shoot me! ^ ^ ^

Sex and fear SELL. It only makes sense after the public caught on to their nefarious tactics, Pfizer resorted to marking Premarin as a sex drug, the female equivalent to Viagra. So, hurry! Boost your libido, put on your French maid outfit so you don't lose your man. Or woman. But they focus entirely on heterosexuals.

Seriously? Who wants him? And why is she holding the flowers? I bet she paid for the tropical vacation too. Yet she bought into the BS. "Who will ever love me, I've over 40 with no fashion sense!"

Then compare to how they market Viagra. Hot, sexy. Also if that guy needs Viagra he clearly needs professional help. What is he, 20? I'm aware many young men take it for sport like Jake Gyllenhaal in that movie. I actually didn't know there was such a thing as a Viagra party.

Pfizer lost interest in Viagra as a solution to possible marital problems and now basically caters to men who just want to get hard. BUT if women want to come to the party, take the death pill.

By the way Pfizer, you should use Seth Rogan for the Viagra, and James Franco for the Premarin. Sales would soar!

Instead they use the most lame adverts I've seen since scented douche bags.

Oh, but none of this is truthful. One in four men under the age of 40 can't get an erection. This increases as they age. Raise your hand if you've been with a young guy and he can't get it up? That's what I thought. But we don't hear about this! We only hear about horrible crones.

Then the poster boys:

And Jack Nicholson who will be bedding the ladies forever and well into the afterlife.

Pfizer even suggests your octogenarian milkman can offer more than just milk. Also who the hell has a milkman? Further, who would shag him? Oh, the Housewives of Beverly Hills. Of course.

To create this amazing deadly drug so women will stop having emotions being bitches and start spreading their legs, Pfizer cages mares, impregnates them; keeps the poor things cold, shackled, whipped, and often beats them with an electrical prods before they are tortured and slaughtered.

Yet there is no law against this and Pfizer won't change their tactics because it would cost money.

Of course most women have no idea. They are being told this miracle pill/cream will give them youth, energy, vitality, an insanely high libido and they'll be attractive to men forever. Right.

Mrs. Kravitz learned the hard way. She died of a stroke while vacuuming just after her daily dose of Premarin.

MY BIG QUESTION is who the hell cares what men think?

I guess I have never in my life given one shit whether men want to have sex with me. Let's put this into perspective. If I want to have sex with you, I'll let you know. If I don't it doesn't mean I suffer from some mental illness and need to be fixed. Note to men: You're not all that. Get over your damn self.

I also don't give one shit if a man threatens to have an affair if I don't want to have sex. Go. Don't forget your Viagra asshole.

After I saw the horse cruelty video I was just appalled. But not really. Because like everything in this patriarchal world, many men want what they want and will go to any length to get it. They will kill animals and risk women's lives to encourage force their wives to have sex, or take Viagra to have sex with anybody (Oh she was 18, OOOPS) and continue to remain unconscious as long as they are thinking with their sex organs.